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A MET NEWSPAPER,--BEVOTFB to LITERATURE, SCIENCE, ART, POLITICS k GENERAL INTELLIGENCE,
VOL- 3.
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The poet’s corner.
The People’s Candidate.
“Scott leads the column ! Forward ! *
“Wholoads the Column!” Y\ ho but lie
Whose name is likened with Victory !
Who but tha llero who lias won
An hundred battles —losing none!
Who but the Chieftain of two wars,
Triumphant with the stripes and stars !
Who wounded, scorned the bitter pain,
And bleeding, charged the foe again.
‘Who leads the Column V Ak of those
Who nobly met their country's foes
At Chippewa and Lundy’s Lane,
Nor met their country’s foe in vain.
(Jo where Niagara’s roar lias vied
With battle's dark ensanguined tide,
From San Ulloa’s castled walls
To Montezuma’s princely halls,
At Cerro Gordo’s bristling puss,
Or glorious charge at Contreras,
At Churubusco's awful fray,
Chepultepec, or at Del Rey,
Or wheresoe’er our flag hath won,
And ask, ‘who foremost led the van V
‘Who leads the Column ?’ ’Tis not he
Who fears to meet the enemy ;
For many a daring, bold advance.
Against the foeman's quivering lance,
And many a blood-red battle-field
here deep-mouthed cannon loudly pealed,
And many a stealthy ambuscade,
W ith foeman of the forest glade,
Attest how brave that heart must be
That ever leads to Victory !
‘H ho leads the Column ?’ Is it he,
I’roud Champiou of our Liberty,
ho nobly deems, wbate’er betide,
” ar as his duty, Peace his pride!
L'srs by a Nation’s proud acclaim
Tae Great Pacificator's name,
ho first iu war the Victory gains,
And welcomes a dove-eyed Peace again.
•Scott leads the Column !’ Hark ! that roar
Re-echoing back from shore to shore,
Lose wild huzzas that rends the skies,
Are but a nation’s warm replies.
3cott leads the column !’ Is there one
T.iat will not now his armor don,
And charge amid the battle’s van ?
” ‘ OTT leads 1 Hurrah! On! Freemen, on!
: BIBCSLLANY.
From the Rural New Yorker.
Incle Jacob’s Mistake.
EY A FARMER’S WIFE.
j a countr >’ tow n in New England, lived Uncle
A’ uS be called, who was as good a specimen
t e onest, rigid, and unyielding farmers of his day,
w U ‘ be >n a week's journey. lie was a hard
in industrious man, who thought all knowledge,
cu arK of farming, descended to him from his fa
ll ’. 1 . * ,r ond acres, that he would have thought
. , Cri e S' ous ,u cultivate in any but the ‘good old way,’
* bought it equally sinful to have
in th C,r m t!le ‘ n w ' llc k was brought up,
Klein n J ana ”f meut °f boys. Yet, occasionally a
Jacob i tfcl ’ rness shine in the eyes of Uncle
him Jk ou^' an >’ expression of it would have made
£^. v 1 k 0 U P ids head among his neighbors.
Jacob M *i* e °nly children of Uncle
in siz e | trC * m€ ’ ‘ lads, with so little difference
that w 1 were Bcncrallyß cn crally taken for twins, tho’
i n th e .] l le *" ac *’ father took no little pride
‘°g fiehls ‘ 6 ' ements Awe boys in the hoeing and hay
lDi]aa S ’ an 'i> s °me reward for their faithfulness,
eo w . ro] ncenti ' e 1° renewed efforts, when his favorite
h°j., to t UCe ma ' e tw ' n ca ' ves ) be gave them to the
deed./ - as their own. Had they received a
ken an °’ tbe towns h'P>would not have
j> 1 a^"air a y more importance in their minds.
•Pent w ’ Sorael^',n S of a pet with Aunt Mary, I often
‘ntere l to^et l ler with her, and felt almost as much
i nte “ with her, and lelt almost as much
never X• 0 a^air aa did the boys themselves; and
in ,j, ( la 1 l" or get the whispered conference we held
te ers ‘ C ° rner tllat n^lu in regard to the ‘ breaking of
draw r j ‘ r '^ e ® was to have on the sled to be
w ere ■ ‘ lbein tb e next winter. Then the story-books
&du>. 6 Consu l te d to find names for the calves; and
* “ aS delegated to me, as the boys had not
Kan me . Ut our s tory-books gave us no names at
*edid nate ’ exce P tin g Valentine and Orson ; these
ajd 80 we decided on the names of Star
•.. ,* ‘ u which appellations the white steers
j C to rejoice.
rta* ‘ nt ° n °' r cu instances thus minutely to show
is attached in the minds of children,
Person ** 1 a PP ear trifling to the minds of mature
or to a * A bar ? ai ", condition, or promise,made with,
pact “ l!1 d should be considered as sacred as a eom
•otneti 6eU man man >* n aot a g reatcr mischief
ItR accr ues from a broken engagement with a
1
child than with an adult, as will be obvious from the
following and numerous other facts.
From the time the boys called the calves their own,
they commenced with them a coarse of training that
made them tractable and obedieut to the little masters •
without an angry word or lash of the whip, or the
crueUtab of the goad-stick, that execrable instrument
of torture, too often put into the hands of passionate
boys, and hardened men. Edward, who was mild and
thoughtful, would never sutler the impetuous and pas
sionate Joseph to wreck the effects of his fiery temper
on their pets. W ben autumn arrived the farm work
allowed them no spare time, excepting evenings, which
were generally devoted to reuding, and Edward was
particularly happy when their evenings could .be so
spent.
The question arose how they should procure a yoke
and sled for their miniature oxen. Iu a short time
the snows would begin to fall, and they would have time
to work their team. After consulting Aunt Mary, as
” as the custom on all perplexing occasions, they ventur
ed to ask Lncle Jacob if he would make a suitable
sled for them, if they would buy a yoke ; this he agreed
to do. Now I will tell you, my young friends, how
these boys earned one dollar and a half, which doubtless
appears to you a very small sum, but which to them was
of great importance. At that time the braiding of straw
for bonnets, constituted the most universal employment
of women and children. Aunt Mary prepared the
straw for them, and they plaited sixty yards with their
stiffened fingers, by the light of the fire in the long
evenings. I cannot say that the braid did not increase
a yard or two, occasionally, in their absence, if their
mother was not too busy about other matters. The
braid was disposed of to a neighboring ‘store-keeper,’
with the amount of which they paid a man for making
a yoke.
llovv did their hearts leap at'.lie first fall of snow in
that late autumn, and how proud was Uncle Jacob to
sec his ’twin boys,’ as he called them, yoking their do
cile calves of nine months old to the tiny sled ! When
Star and Beauty became accustomed to their new yoke,
the boys would take excursions into the woods, and load
their sled with dry and broken limbs of trees for Aunt
Mary to heat her oven. Good, kind mother that she
was, her boys thought nothing they could do would
ever repay her for the innocent stratagems she employed
for their reasonable enjoyment; besides, Uncle Jacob
did not always consider that dry wood was an indispen
sable article in household economy.
Asa special favor, New Years was to be a holiday,
and I was invited to take my first, long promised ride.
I was accordingly provided with mittens and a home
spun blanket, and was seated on the sled by Joseph,
who performed the agreeable, walking by the side of
the sled, while the more bashlul Kdward led and drove
Star and Beauty. Never did Queen in gilded chariot,
enjoy the homage of her subjects as she passed along,
better than I did the delighted gaze of ray school-mates
as we passed the houses on the ‘turnpike,’ between
Uncle Jacob’s and the‘white store.’
That was a memorable day to those boys. Little
did we think, in the innocence of our young hearts
that any man could covet his neighbor’s goods, though
we had all learned the commandment forbidding that
feeling. From the day ‘Squire Field’ saw us pass, he
determined to buy those steers for bis only son, Benja
min—who for boyish reasons of their own, was the
special detestation of Edward and Joseph. Squire
Field was one of those characters often found in coun
try places, years ago, who united the occupations of
lawyer and farmer, and was considered a great man.
Spring eaine, and on the occasion of Squire Field’s
customary evening visits, he cautiously broached the
subject of purchasing the twin steers. As soon as he
had gone and Uncle Jacob was out of hearing—
‘Well,’ exclaimed the excitable Joseph, ‘if father does
sell Star and Bute, I know what I will do; I’ll run away
I won’t stay here!’
‘I won’t say that,’ rejoined the quiet Edward. ‘ln
the first place, I don’t believe father will sell our pro
perty, but if I thought he would doit, I should rather
see them die than that Ben Field should have them, —
it don’t seem to me I could bear that!’
‘Well, boys, don’t worry about it now, but go to bed,’
said Aunt Mary. ‘I don't think he will sell them ;if
I can get a chancel will talk with him about it, though,
be ain’t apt to think woman folks know much about
such matters.’
Late was it that night when those boys slept, and
when they did so their slumbers were none of the
soundest. Joseph, who was something of a ‘sleep
walker,’ arose that night and had opened the door, when
his mother awoke and asked him where lie was going.
He said he ‘was going to kill Star and Bute, so Ben
Field should not have them.’ She awoke him and sent
him again to bed.
Another and another tempting offer was made, till
Uncle Jacob yielded, reluctantly, it is true, but lie did
yield, in spite of the entreaties and tears of the boys,
and the remonstrances of Aunt Mary, who was excited
to an unprecedented degree, for she was heard to say
very emphatically, ‘Jacob Morgan, if you sell the steers,
you will never prosper, and you will repent the act till
the day of your death.’ She knew the boys better
than he did. But Uncle Jacob was never guilty of
such a weakness as yielding to liis wife or children when
money was the object to be gained by opposition. He
had not yet learned the wisdom of the maxim, ‘Begin
nothing of which thou hast not well considered the end.’
I will not attempt to record the mutterings and re
solves of those injured boys. In vain did their father
offer them his note for the money he received. I hey
indignantly refused any overtures, when lie began to
fed secret misgivings as to the policy of his proceeding.
From that time all interest in the farm ceased with
Edward and Joseph; their work was performed me
chanically ; a deadly hate was engrafted on personal
dislike towards Squire Field and his son; a host ol
unkind feelings and passions were excited and fostered,
in brooding over the injury inflicted on them by their
father, who, to do him justice, believed the money was
of more importance to them than the possession of the
steers. The next summer when they rejoiced that
Beauty was struck by lightning, that rejoicing was
only the legitimate consequence of their first trial. The
father’s mistake in the premises, was in part ow’ing to
his having forgotten that he was once a child and con
sequently being unable to sympathize with and appre
ciate the dispositions of children.
In another year Aunt Mary was laid in a quiet nook
in the corner of the farm, and henceforth that 6ix feet
of earth constituted the only attraction to the two boys,
of that extensive farm. Uncle Jacob mourned sin
cerely for his ‘better half,’ which be manifested, by fil
ling her place at the fire-side as soon as decency per
mitted !
As time passed, Edward became more fully deter
mined to leave the farm ; and his father finally consent
ed, and procured him the situation of clerk to 9 store
keeper in the neighboring town, when be had arrived
at the age of sixteen years. Joseph grew more and
more restless after Edward left home, but his father
could not consent to his going; he could not spare him,
besides, he was too young to leave home.
Uncle Jacob awoke one morning to find Joseph’s
room empty, its inmate gone, none knew whither. The
father, in his sternness, refused to 6eek him, —saying,
‘in a few days he will be glad to come home.’ But
that time never came. About five years after he left,
some of the neighbors saw a man dressed in sailor’s
clothes, standing in the light of tho moon, near the
spot where Aunt Mary was buried, whom they tlmught
might be Joseph. Be that as it may, he was never
seen afterwards; and whether he is yot alive, or sleep
ing in ‘ocean’s bed,’ is alike unknown.
Edward gained the confidence of bis employers, and
gave promise of useful and respectable manhood. But,
MACON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 11, 1852.
alas! accustomed to no confidences with his elders, and
naturally shy, he asked the counsel of none. At the
age of nineteen he contracted an imprudent marriage,
(what marriage at that age could be otherwise?) with
an orphan girl of sixteen. With no habits of econo
my , a small salary, and fast increasing family, the wife’s
property was soon spent, and they were reduced to
poverty. True, his father helped him occasionally,
but his own affairs were becoming so embarrassed, he
could scarcely help himself; Edward was therefore left
to struggle on as best he might. At the early age of
forty years he was borne to his grave, having survived
his wife and five children. After his death there was
found in his pocket-book, the following lines in pencil,
having been written but a few days :
Fain would I rest my weary head
Beneath the verdant sod ;
My spirit longs to join the throug,
Before the throne of God.
llow sweet to break the mortal coil
That binds us down to grief and toil.
In the decline of life, misfortunes clustered around
Uncle Jacob. His farm was sold to pay the debts of
a brother-in law for whom he became surety to a large
amount. The old man’s race is nearly run; fourscore
winters have shed their snows on his brow, and dimmed
his eye, which will yet kindle as he earnestly talks to
fathers about the ‘great mistake of his life,’ as ho al
ways calls the selling of the ‘twin steers.’ Boys love
to talk with him, and listen to his kind advice, for he
is one of those to whom age and adversity has brought
wisdom and tenderness. Whenever he sees two bro
thers of the ages that his boys were when they hauled
oven-wood for their mother, with Star and Beauty, he
will pass his bronzed hand across his eyes and sigh,—
‘Such were my poor boys, Edward and Joseph.’
FAMILY GOVERNMENT; OR
A Sunday morning at Mr. Jones’.
TIME—THE BREAKFAST HOUR.
Mr. J ones. Want some pudding, Mary.
Mary. Yes.
Mr. J. Then hold your plate.
Mary. There’s enough. I don’t want a bushel.
Joe. I wish I could ever have some pepper in sea
son. It’s always clean over to that side of the table.
Ellen. Marm, make Ben set that way. I can’t
get to my plate.
Mrs. J. Do, Ben, let her have a chance ; there’s
forever a fuss. Does Anne want some tea ?
Anne. Jsli—(throwing her knife on the floor.)
Mrs. J. There, Charley, pick up sissy’s knife.
Charley. You, Tom ; you are the nearest to it.
Tom. I won't. Do it yourself.
(Mrs. Jones, very sorrowfully, picks it up herself.)
Kate. May Igo to meeting to-day, Marm ? Mary
went last Sunday.
Mary. lain going again to day. I told Fanny
Brown I would, and she is going to call for me. So
shut up your noise.
Kate. Mind your business. That’s always the way.
I never can go anywhere but what you'll up and say
you’re going.
Mrs. J. W’hy, my child, you hain’t got anything
to wear but your blue dress, and it’s too cold to wear
that.
Kate. I can wear my black one.
Mrs. J. ’Tisn’tfit.
Kate. Yes, *tis. My cape’ll cover the waist up.
Mrs. J. Well, have your own way.
Mr. J. Let her go, mother. I’ll stay at home and
take care of the baby.
Mrs. J. 1 shan’t go unless you do.
Nlr. J. Well, we’ll both stay. Pass your d.shpot
of butter this way.
Charley. Give me as big a piece of pie as you do
Nell, marm.
Mrs. J. Hold your tongue or you shan’t have any.
If you've got done breakfast, Mary lake Kate’s dress
and darn that hole in the skirt; and you, Ellen, put a
flat-iron on the stove---Tom’s handkerchief ain’t
ironed.
(They all get up from the table. Exit Mr. J.)
Mrs. J. Mary. I want you to inquire of Mrs. East
man if her husband takes butter ; I should like to send
some over. Now do remember it.
Mary. I will. Mayn’t I wear your gloves to-day?
I’ve torn mine.
Mrs. J. Yes, if you’ll find ’em. I’ll warrant
they’re lost. I haven’t seen them since last Sunday.
(Exit Mary—enter Fanny Brown.’)
Mrs. J. Good morning, Fanny. How’s your
marm ?
Fanny. Quite well, I thank you. Mary has not
gone, has she ?
Mrs. J. No; she ain’t ready. Sit down. Got
quite a flashy shawl —new, of course. Well, I can t
afford to got Mary one this fall.
(Enter Mary.)
Mary. Hullo, Fanny; you’e got along, I see.—
What! anew shawl ? Well, marm says I shall have
one next week.
Mrs. J. I guess not —your old one’ll do. Have
you done what I told you ?
Mary. Yes; and she's ready to go to meeting this
blessed minute, and I havn’t combed my hair. By
the way, Fan, did you see Sarah Emerson’s collar last
Sunday ?
Fanny. No; she sat directly behind me, and I
didn’t see her at all.
Mary. So she sat behind me two pews; but some
body told me to notice it, and so I turned round.
(Here the door burst open, and iu rushed Joe,
Charley, Kate, and Ellen.)
Kate. Marm! marm! Joe got that mouse out of
the buttermilk, and throw’d it at me, and daubed my
dress all over.
Joe. Well, she struck me with a stick that had
a nail in it, and tore my jacket right on there, she did.
Kate. I didn’t neither.
Joe. Didn’t she, Ellen.
Ellen. I don’t know ; I did’nt see her.
Charley. Oh, now you’ve fibbed —cause you said
you wished it had stuck down in his throat to pay him
for pinching you.
Mrs. J. 1 never did see such a pack of good-for
nothing young ones in my life. You shan’t one of you
go to meeting.
(Here a scream is heard, and they run for the cel
lar door; Anne had (alien down stairs.)
Mrs. Jones. Darling little thing—did she fall and
hurt her ? Who had the imprudence to leave that door
open ?
Children all at once. Why, when we come up she
was down the cellar, and had pa’s fiddle to play in the
cream-pot, and—
(Enter Mr. J.)
Mr. J. Boys, who broke my rake-handle ?
Ellen. Joe broke it yesterday. He was chasing
me, and hit it agin the fence.
Joe. I didn’t neither. I didn’t know twas broke.
Charley. What a liar. You told me of it yester
day.
Joe. Th® first I knew it, I went out to the barn,
and it laid in the woodenhouse.
Mr. J. That’s the way everything goes.
(Enter Tom, with a Sabbath-Sohool book torn
shockingly.)
Tom. See there, Pa, my book’s all torn to pieces.
What shall I do ?
Mr J. Who did this, children ?
Kate. Joe and Charles. I was looking to the
pictures, and Joe came and grabbed it, and they ripped
it a-going.
Joe. IU no such thing. I never touched it.
Mr. J. I shall settle with you before you go to bed.
Mary. Where’s my hair comb, Ellen ? I see you
have it.
Ellen. It’s out doors on the well curb. I see
Charles have it.
Kate. Ben dropped it into the well. He—
Mr. J. Shut up your noise; don’t let me hear any
more such stuff.
(Exit Mary.)
Joe. W here’s my hat ?
Mrs. J. Under the table. But where are you go
ing?
Joe. Nowhere.
Mrs. J. Then sit down and keep your clatter still;
I can’t read.
Ellen, in a whisper. Joe, let’s go out and jump on
the hay.
Joe. I won't. Pa, Nell’s trying to get me out to
play.
Mr. J. Sit down.
(Profound silence. Enter Mary.)
Mrs. J. Well, there, I hope you ain’t a-going out
doors with that dress on. Go right and take it off.
Mary. Why, marm, thia is well enough ; I’ll leave
it to Fanny if ’taint.
Mrs. J. Have your own way always. Wait for
Kate.
Kate (up stairs.) Where’s my shawl ?
Mrs. J. I don’t know. Have you looked in the
chest ?
Kate. Yes.
Mrs. J. In the closet.
Kate. Y es.
Mrs. J. In the bed-rootn ?
Kate. Yes.
Mrs. J. Well, look in the trunk or the bureau.
Kate. I have.
Mrs. J. I don’t know where it is then I’m sure.
Ellen. I know where ’tis. We had it up stairs for
a carpet to our play-house, and I suppose it’s there now.
(Enter Kate with the shawl torn shockingly.)
Mrs. J. Well, now, I should like to know who in
the name of common sense did that! I never see such
work in my life. You must take Mary’s.
Mary. I don’t want her to; ’t’will be all switched to
pieces.
Mrs. J. Hold your tongue. Kate take the shawl.
(Exit Mary, Kate, and Fanny.)
(Crash in the store-room—run Mrs. Jones. Charles
creeps out of the ruins of the best sugar pot.)
Mrs. J. O, my soul and body, what a caper this
is ! You little good-for-nothing, what do you mean !
Get into the other room there, and if I catch you in
such business again, I’ll take your cars off! March,
march quick.
(Exit Charles—enters the room where there are
seated Joe, Ellen, and Annie.)
Joe. Give me some of that’air.
Charley. I won’t neither—go and help yourself, as
I did ; the old woman’ll only jaw a little.
Anne. Dib me some sooder.
Ellen. Give me some of that ’air.
Charley. Ye shan’t any of ye Lave it.
(Exit Charles.)
Ellen. Now, Joe you go and let the squirrel out to
pay him for that.
Joe. You'll tell.
Ellen. No, I won’t.
(Exit Joe—enter Mrs. Jones.)
•Mrs. J. Where’s Joe gone now?
Ellen. He’s gone up chamber to get some corn to
parch, I guess.
Mrs. J. Do you know where Mary’s gold pen is ?
Ellen. Kate broke it yesterday.
Mrs. J. Broke it—how?
Ellen. She was pricking holes in Ben’s book.
Mrs. J. Well for mercy’s sake tell Mary you don't
know where ’tis, if she asks you, for she’ll make such
an awful piece of work.
(Exit Mrs. Jones—enter Ben.)
Ben. How came Charley’s squirrel out ? saw him
running down towards the wood like Caesar.
Ellen. Joe let him out cause he wouldn’t give him
any sugar. Let’s tell Fa of him.
(Eater Charles and Joe.)
Ben. Charles, Joe went and let your squirrel out,
and he’s cleared for old Hickory woods like smoko.
Joe. 1 never done no such thing.
Ellen. Whatn liar! You did too.
Joe. You told me to, or 1 never should have thought
of it.
Ellen. I didn’t, neither. *
Joe. You did too. But I guess you’d better go
out in the wood-house and see where your rag-baby is.
(Exit EUen.)
Joe. Geod ! I tore her old doll all to pieces.
(Enter Ellen.)
Ellen. Did you do that ?
Joe. No. I found it so when I went out.
Charles. There Ellen, he just said he did.
Joe. I didn’t did I, Ben ?
Ben. No, I didn’t hear you.
Ellen, crying. I'll tell Pa; Isnum, I will.
Joe. Cry baby ! cry baby !
(Ellen flies at Joe, and a fight ensues, during which
Mr. Jones enters.)
Mr. J. Young ones, what are ye racketing about
here at this rate (or ? Stop your noise. (Each a cuff,
which sets all a-erjing.)
NIGHT ALL AT HOME.
Mary. Maim, where’s my pen ? I want to write a
letter.
Mrs. J. I don’t know. Children where is it ?
(Giving each a wink.)
Children, all at once. I don’t know nothing about it.
Mr. J. Can’t you keep still! I can’t tell whether I
am reading in Moses or Paul. Come I’ll read aloud.
‘And it came to pass’——
Ellen. Oh !
Mr. J. What’s to pay ?
Ellen, crying. Joe pinched me and Tom pulled my
hair.
Mr. J. Joe, sit this way; Tom mind your business;
‘And it came to pass’ - -
Charles. Let me alone, Ben, or I’ll knock you down.
Ben. I hain’t touched ye.
Charles. You have.
Mr. J. (closing his Bible.) I never se such a pack
of good-for-nothing young ones in my life. I know I’ve
done my duty but its no use.
Mrs. J. Well, I have done mine, and I don’t sea
what ails them.
Kate, I know what ails Joe ; he’s got the itch !
Mr. J. He. he, he! I guess Polly after all, our
children are as bright as anybody’s—so we have no
cause to complain.
SCENE CLOSES.
A True Story.
The following remarkable story has all the
interest of romance yet it is true, and the parties
are still living: —
It was in memorable year of 1814 when the
allied armies were concentrated about Paris,
a young lieutenant of dragoons was engaged
with three or four Hungarians who, after hav
ing received several strokes from his sabre,
managed to send a ball into his shoulder, to
pierctThis chest with a thrust from a lance, and
to leave him for dead on the bank of the riv
er.
Oil the opposite side of tho stream, a boat*
man and his daughter had been watching the
unequal fight with tears of desperation. But
what could an old unarmed man do, or a pretty
child of sixteen 1 However, the old soldier—?
for such the boatman was—had no sooner seen
the officer fall from his horse than he and his
daughter rowed vigorously for the other stde.
Then, when they had deposited the wouoded
man in their boat, these worthy pedjpfe crossed
the river again, but with faint hopes of reaching
the military hospital in time.
“You have been very badly treated my boy,’’
said the old gentleman to him ; “but here am
I, who have gone further and come home.”
The silence and the fixed attitude of Lieuten
ant S , showed the extreme agony of his
pains, and the hardy boatman soon discovered
that the blood which was gathering about the
wound on his left side would shortly terminate
his existence. He turned to hisyouthlu) daugh
ter.
“Mary,” he said, “you have heard me tell of
my brother; he died of just such a wound as
this her*. Well, now if there had only been
somebody to suck the hurt, his life would have
been saved.”
The boatman then landed and went to look
for two or three soldiers to help him to carry
the officer leaving his daughter in charge of
him. The girl looked at the sufferer for t sec
ond or two.—What was her emotion when she
heard sigh so deeply, not that he was resigning
life in the first flower of his age, but that he
should die without a mother’s kiss.
‘‘My mother! my dear mother!” said he, “I
die without ”
Her woman’s heart told her wht he would
have said. Her bosom heaved with sympathy
and her eyes ran over.
Then she remembered what her father said,
she thought how her uncle’s life might have
been saved. In an instant quicker than thought
she tore open the officer’s coat, and the gener
ous girl recalled him to life with her lips.
Amid this holy occupation the sound of foot
steps was heard, and the blushing heroine fled
to the other end of the boat. Judge of her fath
er’s surprise as he came up with two soldiers,
when he saw Lieut. S—, whom he expec
ted to find dead, open his eyes, and ask for his
deliverer.
The boatman looked at bis child and saw 7 it
all. The poor girl came to him with her head
bent down. She was about to excuse herself,
when her father embracing her with enthusiasm
raised her spirits, and the officer thanked her
in these prophetic words.
“You have saved my life, it belongs to you.”
After this she tended him and became his*
nurse. Nothing would be taken but from
her hand. No wonder that with such a nurse
heat length recovered. Mary pretty
as she was good.
Meanwhile, master Cupid who is very busy
in such cases, gave him another wound, and
there was only one way to cure it, so very deep
it was.
The boatman’s daughter became Madame
S . Her husband is not now a simple lieu
tenant, but a Lieutenant-General, and the boat
man’s daughter is as elegant and graceful a
lady as any you see at court.
P 0 LI TICS.
From the Hilton Chronicle.
The Democratic Candidates.
Air —Old Dan Tucker.
The Democrats is mighty fierce,
A braggin on their gineral Pierce,
And think their ticket just the thing
Decause upon it stands a King.
But lawsy massy ! how we’ll slay ’em,
With Winfield Scott and Billy Graham.
Their Pieroe ne’er Pierced since he could walk,
Aught half so often as a cork.
Ills statesmanship ain’t worth a pin,
In battle he but broke his shin,
Lawsy massy ! &o.
The King of whom they rant and roar,
A clever chap is to be sure:
But who the deuce is going to fancy
A man, who's known as ‘old Miss Nancy V
Oh, lawsy massy! &c.
In Congress, ’tis beyond dispute,
‘Miss Nancy’ wore‘the neatest boot,’
And gineral Pierce, what’er his callin,
Grew great upon his horse's fallin.
Lawsy massy! &c.
We’ve told as nearly as we can,
The greatnesses of either man.
King, boots, Pierce, horse blunders and brandy
And little boys, and sugar candy.
Lawsy massy ! how we’ll slay ’em,
Lawsy massy ! how we’ll slay ’em,
Lawsy massy ! how we’ll slay ’em,
With Gen. Scott and Billy Graham.
The Chippewa Ball is rolliDg on.
Tune —‘Picayune Butler.’
Say, have you heard the swelling sound
That rushes from our northern bound
It’s mighty peal fills every blast
The Locofocos stands aghast.
Tbe Chippewa Ball is rolling and a rolling,
And the Chippewa Ball is a rolling on,
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Ilurrra,
The Chippewa Ball is rolling and a rolling,
And the Chippewa Ball is a rolling on.
Fort George's standard breaks to smash
Beneath Old Winfield’s sturdy slash,
And England’s flag now drapes the ground
Where it so lately flapped around.
The Chippewa Ball is a rolling, &o.
Niagara’s tide cannot outroar
The bur9tling thunders on her shore
By oannon’s f£h, the shining blade
Os Lundy’s Hero is displayed.
The Chippewa Ball is a rolling, &o.
His lofty plume is bathed in light
That dances in the awful fight
He's in a fuss with conquering eye,
And makes the British feathers fly.
The Chippewa Ball is a rolling, &c.
lie fought for thousands of us here
Ere we could hurl the deadly spear,
We’ll pay him for the blood he lost
Repelling the invading host.
The Chippewa Ball is a rolling, <fcc.
The people say they will reward
The wielder of the blazing sword,
Who strove with bravest rank and file
To drive the fed-coats from our soil.
The Chippewa ball is a rolling, &0.
Unnumbered thousands boldly say
They’ll give their votes for Chippewa;
Old Lundy wastes the Loco group,
They smell the powder in his soup.
The Chippewa ball is a rolling, &c.
Come on and ‘lag’ not by tho way,
Ye merry friends of Chippewa;
There is no fight in Franky Pierce,
You’ll make him ‘laint by loooking fierce.’
The Chippewa ball is a rolling, &c.
411 tho dissatisfaction that was manifested
in Boston, on account of Gen. Scott’s nomina
tion, seems to haye passed away. The Young
Men’s Whig Association, organised expressly
for the support of Mr. Webster, has declared
iwelf a Scott association. Whig newspapers
have ail, with the exception ofthe Courier, rais
ed the Scott flag.
From the Richmond Whig.
Supposed to be a portion ofthe Lost Book of
Jasher, lately discovered by Layard amid
the Kuins of Nineveh.
CHAPTER ‘Till.
1. And it came to pass in the fourth year, that the
Locos met together in council, even in the city of Bal
timore.
I. They came up in great numbers, and the sound
of th sir coming was as the roaring of many waters.
3. And there came together men of every tongue
and speech. Hunkers and Barnburners, Free Soilers,
Abolitionists, and Interventionists, Unionists, Seces
sionists and Tariffites, and with them also Rynders, the
Hittite, and Mike Walsh, the subteranean, who dwell
eth in the slime pits of Sodom.
4. And they communed one with another, saying
let there be no division amongst us, but what soul
soever languisheth after the loaves, let him be seated
in our midst, and dwell in the tents of abundance.
5. And let us choose ourselves a captain and a lead
er, who shall lead us into high places, even those
which abound with veins of silver and find gold.
6. And into a land flowing with milk and honey,
where we may lie down in fatness, and possess our
souls in gladness.
7. And that saying pleased them greatly ; and
they wagged their heads every man of them, and sat
down.
8. Then there arose an nneient man, who opened
his mouth and said. Let it be proclaimed this day
whom ye will serve, and unto whom shall the gather
ing of the people bo.
9. And there went forth a voice, as the voice of
hundreds, saying, Is there not Lewis of Michigan, a
great man and wise, who moreover hath been a man of
war from his youth up ?
10. Let us cleave therefore unto him, and he shall
rend the prev from the mighty, and give the spoils
unto us for an inheritance, and a possession forever.
11. But others cried, Nay, what portion have we
in Lewis Cass ? for his sword is broken and the scep
tre is departed from Michigan.
12. But there is a young man even Douglas, who is
very beautiful, so there is none like him in all the earth,
and the hearts of the people yearn unto him.
13. For hesitteth near the marketplace, and sayeth
unto each man, ‘Would that I were a ruler in Irael,
even for thy sake; for my affections goeth abroad,
even unto the love of strange flesh.’
14. So his mouth is filled with promises, and his
hand holdeth not back the wine cup; for one,
two, yea three drinks and four, giveth he to every
man, for he is a man of progress, and stnyeth not in all
his courses.
15. Then there sprang forth in their midst a man
of the west, a man of fierce contenance, having his
loins girt about with buckskin, aud whose meat was
bears and wild varmints.
16. And he cried aloud, who is he that apeaketh of
the wine cup, whose soul panteth for strong drink .
Let him muster under the banner of the Chief Butler
of Kentucky, and wine shall he have, yea wine iu
flagons and strong drink in barrels.
17. Lo, even now at the sound of his name my spir
it thirsteth greatly; let us therefore adjourn for a season.
18. Then spake there a man from Maine saying, not
so my brother, but let us do all things soberly, and
drink only the running brook.
19. But the man of the west cried out, is thy ser
vant a dog, that he should do this thing ? So he
turned and went away in a rage.
20. And all the people followed after the man of the
west.
OHATKR IX.
1. And in the process of time the men returned,
and sat again in council, even in the great Sauhedriu
in Baltimore.
2. And their eyes were red, but not with weeping ;
and they were filled, but not with the spirit of wis
dom.
3. And the contention waxed great amongst them,
and they strove together many days.
4. Then there arose certain men of Virginia, who
said, Let us gather ourselves unto Buchanan, the
Tariffite, for he is a Hunker indeed, in whom there is
great guile.
5. His name is published in many lands, and the
sound thereof hath reached unto ours ears and none
can say that we are setters forth of strange men.
6. But others cried nay, for he was raised in the
tents of wickedness, and hath blasphemed against us
in the language of Ashdod, saying that he would let
out the blood of the Democracy, even with a lancet.
7. But the men of Virginia clave unto him, and a
a certain wise man among them said, why do ye mur
mur ? And wherefore make ye known onr reproach
unto our adversaries?
8. As for that saying, let the memory thereof
rot, and let the blackness of darkness cover it forever.
9. Wot ye not, that as the strong man, even Sam
son, found honey, yea, the precious honey comb, in
the body of the dead lion ; so, also, my soul smelleth
the savor of sweet doctrine ; yea, snuffeth the odor of
pure Democracy, in the defunct carcass of Federalism.
10. But the others said these men be drunken with
new wine ; let us rather cleave unto Marcy, who dis
penseth spoils, and giveth much raiment unto those
who follow after him.
11. Then replied unto them the men of Virginia,
As for this Marcy we have no inheritance in him ; let
him remain, like Asher, by the sea shore, and dwell in
his breeches.
12. But we will gather ourselves unto a great and
a wise man, even Dickinson, and him only will we
follow:
13. For he hath trod in high places and been seen
afar of all men; for his goings forth have been stately
as the steppings of the he goat of Syria, that browseth
upon Mount Gideon.
14. Then Dickinson bowed himself unto the ground
and cried unto them saying, Oh, sirs, live forever!—
now be it for this time. I pray you have me excused,
since I serve Lewis of Michigan, and him only do I
serve.
15. And again spake unto these men the of Virginia,
saying, Lo these many days have we striven together
in vain contention. There be giants in the land, but
ye will none of them.
16. Lt u, therefore, search out some small man,
whose ways are unknown, so that the mouths of the
gainsayers shall be stopped.
17. Let us, therefore, assemble ourselves unto Pierce,
for he is the smallest among ten thousand and altogeth
er puny.
18. For there is a path which the eagle knoweth
not, and the wild goat hath not found, and therein
Fierce, the son of New Hampshire, walketh ; for bp
is a meek man, and refuseth to sit upon a horse.
19. And it shall come to pass, that as Zoar was
saved from the ruin of Sodom, because it was the least
of the cities of the plain, so shall it happen that when
the wrath of the people shall rain down tempest upon
the great ones of our party, and the lightning shall
run along tbp ground, that it shall spare even Pierce,
because he is a little one.
20. Then stood up among them Rynders, the Hit
tite, who w* captain anjong certain men of Belial, and
said, Lewis I knov, cod Doagla* I k now hitt who
is he ?
21. Then answered unto him a man of New Hamp
shire, saying, He is like Ephraim, a pleasant child, for
he speaketh but few words and wriitlh no letters, hot
be spelleth wonderfully.
23. In bis right hand Ire holdeth tllb lo&yes and
with his left he dispensetb tbs fishes, even placet ai>d he
is cunning to catch gudgeons.
23. Moreover, brethren, he hath been known to
give alms, even one cent money current with the mer
chant, unto a boy that was a stranger unto him.
24. Then exclaimed Rynders tbe Hittite, the like
thereof was never beard of in Israel, and as my soul
livelh, unless I see with iny owe eyes, and feel with
these fingers, that cent, even that red cent, 1 will not
believe though one rose from the dead.
25. But the others were weary and hungered for
the loaves and the fishes, so they hearkened to the
men of Virginia, and gathered themselves unto Pierce
of New Hampshire.
26. And as for the reel of the doings es the Loooe
in Baltimore, are they not written is the books of tbe
Apocrypha ?
27. And it came to para, when Case and Douglas
heard that Pierce had been chosen captain of tbe Host,
that they lifted up their voices and wept; and tbe
whigs of the house of Fillmore heard them.
23. And they rent tbeir garments and scattered
ashes on their heads, and went uptothecapitol crying.
Oh, Pierce my friend, my friend Pierce, would to God
I had been chosen instead of tbee.
Letter from Jamie O’SulliTan.
Nbw Yoaz, August 3, 1852.
Gintlemin :—Misther O’Neil, that’s Teddy that
used tu report for tbe Sinate, ax’d me the other day,
’Mr. O’Sullivan, sez he, why don’t ye write a histburv
av yer travels and advintures av the frontier, in the
late war V ‘Be dad,’ sex I, ‘Teddy, I’m not like you
young chaps that’s brought np to the larnin wid yer
lexicons and yer paradoxes, and yet jomethry's, and
the likes, and besides, sex I, my exparence was limited
entirely whin I was sint ass to Ould England army in
the war, but sez I, I will sit down, wan of these odd
comeshortlys, and tell the Commonwealth folks th
sthory of the Queenstown prisoners.
It’s meself that knows all about that same. It’s
throe I was but a bit of a gossoon thin, but I’d bin in
Amerikylong enough to becomes native, and begora,
whin Gineral Van Rensellaer was drumrnin up the
boy 9 for a shindy, I tuk a hand along, for a scrimmage,
and an illigant scrimmage let me tell ye we had av it,
I was under Colonel Scott, more he token, he hadu’t
thin growed up to be Gineral, though he was six fut
sivin in his stockins, and bad a sow! in him twice as
big as his body.
May be, gintlemin, yev read the accounts tv thim
times, and ye’ll recollect tbe Americans fought like
mad, and bate the inemy two or three times, and druv
’em back, bnt the British were reinforced agen and
agen, and lots of thim divils av red skins along, and
painted all colors too, at that; and finally our little
squad, after being killed up entirely, wor taken
prisoners, wid Scott along! Well, bad luck to thim,
they put us on board a vessel at Quebec, to be sint an to
Boston to be exchanged. Well, Mr. Bull sends somo
av his Officers aboard where vver fifty or sixty av us
nathuralised Irish, calling U 9 thraiters to King George,
and the likes, and picking us cut like sbeap out av a
pin, jist for stringin’ us up.
A little Cockney Officer comes up to me, and, sez
be,‘yer name, sir?’ ‘O Sullivan,’sez I. ‘Yer from
Bally shannon,’ sez he. ‘lf anbody should ax ye that,
sez I, ‘tell ’em ye don’t know.’ ‘Take ass yer ’ol,
sez he, ‘in the prisince av yer superior hofficers.’—
‘Yer not my suparior,’ sez I, ‘yer not high enough by
ten inches.’ ‘Mark him down,’ sez be to his Orderly
Sargeant, ‘he can’t spake English,’—and so they had
got twenty-three av us marked ass, when up cornea
Col. Scott on deck, and, sez he, ‘what are ye doin’ wid
the boys?’ ‘Picking ’em out for the gallows,’ sez a red
coat, wid epauletts on him as big r.s a white wash brush.
‘Then,’ sez Scott to the boys, ‘whisht yer tongues, sez
he ; answer no questions, and they’ll not know yer Irish
—and now, Mr. King’s Officer, sez he, ‘I give ye fair
warnin’, that if ye hang wan av thim boyiH’ll hang an
Englishman formnst him, and man for man.’ ‘Go bo
low,’ sez the officer. ‘Go to the devil,’ sez Scott, and
so they quarrelled, for on an occasion like that Scott is
as quarrelsome a divil as yed find in Donnybrook fair.
But, ye see, our hands wor tied, and they tuck twinty
threc av us, and meself wan av ‘em, and sint us over
to ould England, wid the consoling promise that whin
they got there they’d hang every mother’s son av us.
Be gorra it was little fun they left in ns. For meself I .
did not like the idea of bangin’—its what I had not
been used to, more be token, the O’Suiliras were a
paple above bangin’ intirely.
But in the saquel, divil a one av us was hanged, for
the Colonel, ye see, wint an to Washington, as soon as
he was exchanged, and touli the whole story to the
President, and the big bugs at Congress, and they
passed a law in a jiffy, to retaliate, aa they called it
and thin Scott who had just got a taste of the matter,
went back to the seat of war. He’d soon a plinty av
prisoners, so he picked out twinty-three good looking
red coats, Inglith , not Irish , mind thin he writes to
the British commander, ‘Mr. John Bull.’ Sez he, ‘for
thim twinty-three Irish boys Iv’e selected twinty-three
Inglish,and now av ye like to thrv yer hand at hang
ing, there’s two can play a hand at that game, and
we’ll thry, and make anneres aisy,’ sez he. So they
began to luck about thim, and finally concluded to let
us ass, and after the pace, they sint us back to this blis
sid land av freedom.
We landed at New York, and its no lie t tell r
gintlemin, the very day we lauded on the batthery,
who should be takin’ a walk there but Colonel Scott,
that’s the Gineral himself. He knew us in a minute 5
and didn’t we know him ? Bedad, the people around
wor astonished intirely at the hurrahs av the wild
Irish, as they called us.
The Colonel takes me be the hand, ‘an’ is this you,
Misthur O’Sullivan,’ sez he, ‘lts meself intirely, heaven
bless yer anner,’ sez I, ‘and may tbe Holy Vargin and
all the Saints purtict ye foriver and a day afther,’ sez
I. ‘Ye saved me life, Colonel, from the dirty gallows,
too,’ sez I, ‘not that I’d mind a fair chance for a shot in
a scrimmage an the field,’ sez I, ‘but to be hanged like
a dog—its a way tbe O’Sullivau’a wern’t edicated to,
at all, at all, and they fighting for freedom, at that,’
sez I.
Well, we parted wid a hearty ‘God bleu ye,’ an
I’ve not seen the Gineral from that day to this, but if
erer I forget him, or don’t vote for him, may tba divil
fly away wid me intirely.
Yer Humble Sarvant,
JAMIE O’SULLIVAN.
P. S. The way Teddy and meself happened to be
cousins, is, Teddy’s father an me own mother wer sis
ters—more be token, I’ve eleven Irish boys, ivery one
av them naturalized, and boro in Ameriky, and ivery
mother’s son av ’em goes for Gineral Scott for Presi
dent unanimously.
[Here follows what Gen. Scott said to Mr. Upton,
of the Louisiana Delegation, as taken from the report
of Mr. Upton’s remarks at tbe Louisville Ratification
Meeting:]
“ Mr. Upton elated that his delegation for fifty-three
straight ballote had voted for Fillmore, but when the
nomination was mads she was tl.p first of the extreme
South to give in her adhesion. In regard General
Scott and the Compromise, he said be regarded him
perfectly sound, he had accepted the nomination with
the platform , and had remarked to him personally,
that ‘no matter in what sphere of life, whether citizen
Scott, Gen. Scott, or the head of the army qf the U.
States, or if elected, as President Scott, if be ever
should do aught to impair the fugitive slave ant in word
or deed, then write infamous before my name and in
famous after my canuyand kick me into tbe gutter of
h
NO. 23.